DISTANCE

His canvas plimsolls tracked through the paved white sheen of the afternoon snow, his hands clenched into fists inside the pockets of his auburn leather jacket, his ears growing red under a thin fleece hood, his knees numb and brittle moving like the unloved axle of a seized up old bicycle. He imagined her warm hands nestled under her breast, lifting with the light breath of slumber, that rose to the chime of a distant hour some many miles away. In her country the sun would rouse her with the humid warmth of summer in less than four hours. Her blue eyes would recoil and her tanned arms would reach and snap the shutters closed. When she finally found her feet her bones
too would feel awkward and mechanical. It's strange what is said about distance, hearts growing fonder in absence, but does the mind have the faculty to listen and not just ponder?

As the snow returned it fell across his face, bitter to his shivering lips. The splintered maples caught nothing and instead the melted blanket underfoot turned quickly to ice. When he reached the next
intersection he watched his grim reflection glide by slowly in a passing cab. She too saw her reflection in the bathroom vanity and thought of him, his pale skin she envisaged from photographs, his smile she remembered by heart. She had not seen that smile since January last, and the reason for their farewell had never ceased to trouble her. The suddenness of it, the very painlessness at the time had seemed foreign, as though it had belonged to another person, a denial not at all her own. He had left according to plan, but the plan had changed from its inception and it no longer included her hand. Fair weather friends they were not, and he knew one day he would again find her grace but he was never certain of what form it would take, the confidant, the memory, the letter writer perhaps, but always she would be his muse.

The months that had followed were not miserable, nor as he had feared were they filled with pain. A new life and new surroundings were as intriguing as they were puzzling and as much as she would find his waking thoughts, he would share only fondness for the lives they now knew. Occasionally she would be privy to photos of him, she would admire and she would be filled with a strange sense of pride but she would always put it down to an inane nostalgic flight of fancy. But as the months passed she would find herself more captivated in his correspondence than in the charm any potential suitor could provide. He watched faces, he listened to strange unfamiliar voices, he found solace in limbo and became content knowing that he would not find anyone new to engage him, not like her. The blooms came, and then the songs of summer, green turned yellow to red and the sun stayed well into the night. He felt close to his old homeland, it was in letters, in the papers, online, but it no longer felt like his.

On an afternoon of streaming through parks and traffic on two wheels he felt his hair dance with the wind. At the same time she was battling with a freezing gale walking home late in the night. She felt
her fingers scroll through her mobile and find his name with all the strange international codes at the start, but instead of dialing she locked her phone and stored it back in her over sized leather duffel, protracted her keys and rescued herself from the cold. He felt a chill lift up his spine, like someone walking over his grave and slowed himself to a stop. He was on a crest staring straight at a row of Tudor style houses, their green rooves lit brightly under the midday sun. There were moments when everything fell quiet, when the busy streets and the constant throng of passers by disappeared and left behind an eery silence. In a city that was built around noise and movement, you could often ignore the strings of the heart and just listen to the static that was all around you, when that buzz was gone he found he couldn't hide from what he yearned for most.

It was in autumn that he finally heard her voice, it was the sound he imagined velvet would make and he knew instantly by the tone in her voice, that love was still with her. She asked about his life, trying to live vicariously through his words, trying to not sound like she wanted his touch and not just his voice and in all of a few moments they had watched her afternoon turn into night, and he had watched the sun rise. Theirs was an eternal crossing of night and day, poetic in
theory, but in practice distance was simply a word that gave frustration to daily living.

In a Thai restaurant his thoughts were revealed on paper, pulling the thin piece of writing from his fortune cookie it read 'you will seriously consider moving by the end of the year'. He excused himself from the table and went to the restroom where he ran his hands under the warm water and stroked his fingers through his shaggy mop of hair. He wondered what she would make of him, with the unforgiving light of the flurorescent tubes he looked gaunt and dishevelled. The rain outside was coming through the open bathroom window and he could see the light of the moon refracting in the tiny droplets gathering on the sill. He pocketed the note and undid the top button of his plaid shirt
before walking through the restaurant and out and finding himself staring up at the endless stretch above him, letting the drizzle saturate him completely.

She woke with the birds, and for a second rolled over her bed expecting to find him there beside her, she now knew a date and that gave her hope, knowing that one day soon he would be there. Is there a reason why one person can fit where others feel cumbersome? It was more than fingers that interlocked perfectly or shoulders that were made for her head, it was an endorphin that she found only came with him. As she lay there she couldn't help but feel it in her just by imagining him.

He booked flights and sold all of his superfluous possessions in an east side street market. He thought about that old adage about love and letting it go, about that which is truly yours coming back to you in the end. She had let him go too, he wondered about all of the choices we make in life, the compromises and the mistakes. Are there really any mistakes? When he locked his door for the last time he looked at his bond cheque and laughed, he felt like throwing his keys into the
air like the graduation cap of a newly free student. With suitcase in hand he again trudged his canvas plimsolls through the snow, walking for the last time down the long stretch of town houses identical in their facades. His hands were frozen white inside the pockets of his three quarter length coat. His legs laboriously treading up the steps of his bus. His bones tight from shivering. He imagined his warm hands in hers nestled under her breast.